Chapter 2
Unforeseen Complication
The following morning, Darcy left his quarters whistling lowly.
As on the previous day, he sought out his sister and found her in the parlor playing the pianoforte.
For several minutes he stood in the foyer listening.
Georgiana’s nimble fingertips glided over the ivory keys, the music issuing forth in a lyrical cascade.
Her skill never failed to amaze him, and pride swelled his heart.
Then, he detected a subtle imperfection in the familiar piece written by Mozart, and a peek past the jamb revealed her posture abnormally stiff. Chuckling, Darcy strolled into the room.
“Brother!”
“Blessed morning, my sweet. As always, I appreciate being greeted with your talent. What better way to begin my day?”
“Better than coffee and eggs?”
Darcy bent and kissed her rosy cheek. “Indeed, it may be a draw between coffee and your playing. I cannot decide.” He playfully pinched the tip of her nose.
“Now, answer truthfully. Am I correct in my assessment that Herr Mozart’s concerto lacked your usual precision?
Can it be you are distracted by nervousness? ”
Georgiana bit her lip. “I know very well I should not be nervous, yet I am. Please do not lecture.”
Darcy feigned astonishment and pointed at his chest while mouthing Me? Lecture? His drama worked. Georgiana smiled, if a bit wanly.
“I have never hosted a tea party all on my own and admit that doing so unnerves me. Why I initiated the idea is unfathomable! What if I spill hot tea on Miss Elizabeth? What if I drop a blob of jam onto Miss Bennet’s dress?
What if I embarrass us by saying something inappropriate?
Or what if my tongue refuses to move at all and I stare dumbly for hours? What if I—”
“At the present, I have difficulty giving credence to your worry over your tongue refusing to move,” Darcy interrupted.
Georgiana clamped her lips tight.
“As for your other concerns, you are far too graceful to spill anything on anyone, and I can assure that any embarrassing utterances by you will never trump the ones already delivered by me. Have no fear, Georgie. If I were to wager, my money would be on the three of you laughing away the afternoon with gossip and whatever else females blather on about.”
Delivering another tweak to her nose, he turned away and walked toward the servant’s bell. Georgiana jumped up, suddenly cheerful.
“Then I suppose I can enlighten Miss Elizabeth about you when younger, yes? Should I tell her about the time you were half carried into Pemberley by Mr. Vernor because you stumbled on the carriage steps and twisted your ankle? Why again was it that Father said you were ‘pickled enough to feel no pain’? And I am sure she would be amused by the time you and Cousin Richard lost your way while hunting in the woods a mile from Rivallain. Or should I start with describing the tragic outcome when you attempted to fashionably curl your hair?”
“That depends on how badly you want new gowns or music sheets—or food,” he growled with mock severity.
“Perhaps I was hasty in my assurances. Let us save the worst of my youthful mishaps for after Miss Elizabeth has married me. You do want to have a sister, do you not? Ah, Mr. Travers. Perfect timing. You have saved me from further rehashing past follies.”
“I do my best, Mr. Darcy. How else may I be of service?”
“Please pass the message to have my carriage readied in one hour. I have an appointment with my tailor.”
The butler gave his assurances and then briskly departed the room.
“Will you be gone all day?”
Darcy turned back to his sister, torn between amusement and sympathy by the strain in her voice and creased brows.
Pretending he misunderstood the concern behind her question, he answered, “I will be away all morning. Beyond that I am unsure. No need to fret, Georgie. I promise not to interrupt your afternoon engagement.”
“I was rather hoping you would join us,” she mumbled, staring at her slippered toes.
“You do not need me for moral support, nor, to be frank, would I particularly enjoy sipping tea while three ladies gossip and share fashion advice.” Darcy patted her cheek and switched to a tone of authority, as he knew she needed in times such as this.
“You are Miss Georgiana Darcy of Pemberley, the daughter of Lady Anne Darcy and niece of the Countess of Matlock, and as such will perform brilliantly. Never forget who you are. Perfection as a hostess is in your blood, my dear.”
Pleased at the confidence straightening her spine and lifting her chin, Darcy continued in the same Master of Pemberley pose.
“I took the liberty of requesting orange pudding and sugar cakes be added to the menu since Miss Elizabeth and Miss Bennet expressed particular delight in each. I have also instructed Mrs. Smyth to use the Compagnie des Indes tea set”—Darcy ignored Georgiana’s gasp—“and the Würth cutlery.”
“Oh, William! Are you sure? I know Miss Elizabeth deserves the best, but what if—”
“Indeed, Elizabeth deserves the best and always shall have it. That, however, is not why I specified the two.” Clasping both her hands between his, Darcy bent until at her eye level.
“They were Mother’s favorites when entertaining, so fitting for today.
Most importantly, I knew you would be nervous and this, more than my words, proves my trust in your capabilities. Be placated, dearest.”
He kissed her forehead and then straightened. “Now, I have a bit of work to attend to before my appointment. Have an enjoyable day with my beautiful future wife and her sister.”
Confident that Georgiana would overcome her nervousness, especially once in the presence of the always-effervescent Elizabeth and soothing Jane, Darcy exited the room, once again whistling.
* * *
Like all gentlemen of wealth and station in society, Darcy had his garments created by the best tailors, hatters, and boot makers in the business.
Even with the plethora of possible choices in London, certain craftsman gained preeminence, with competition to be on their client list quite stiff.
Fortunately, Darcy had access to three of the top tailors in London, thus having a choice when it came to selecting who would sew his wedding ensemble.
Nevertheless, he hadn’t needed to contemplate the matter.
Jonathan Meyer, the renowned Austrian tailor who serviced Beau Brummell and the Prince Regent upon occasion, was famous for his impeccable workmanship and unique designs.
For an event as important as his wedding, Darcy insisted on something special, and there was no doubt that Mr. Meyer would deliver.
Standing before the tall mirrors lining one corner of the secluded fitting room suites at Thirty-Six Conduit Street on the northern end of Savile Row, Darcy examined the black woolen broadcloth trousers and jacket sewn precisely to his measurements.
Not a flaw was found to any seam or hem, not that he expected any.
Whether sewn by his hand or by one of his skilled assistants, nothing passed beyond the front doors of Jonathan Meyer’s shop without his final inspection.
A young apprentice tailor materialized to Darcy’s left, the final garment necessary to complete the suit hanging from his outstretched arm for full display.
“Here is the waistcoat, Mr. Darcy. The embroidery is complete as per the agreed upon design. With your approval, and Mr. Meyer’s,”—he bobbed his head toward the tailor quietly standing nearby—“we can sew the lining.”
Darcy slipped the jacket off and into the waiting hands of a second attendant, his expression neutral as the unlined waistcoat was gingerly pulled over his shoulders to test for fit.
A full minute passed with Darcy calmly turning side to side as he lightly ran his fingertips over the creamy ivory satin with polychrome silk floss delicately patterned into a scrolling floral motif along the edges up to and including the high collar.
The cloth-covered buttons were also embroidered and positioned to blend perfectly into the design.
While not as ornate as the handful of waistcoats he owned to be worn exclusively for official Court events, this one came close.
Unlike those gaudy, old-fashioned suits that Darcy abhorred wearing, this modern-cut ensemble with the contrast of ivory and splashes of color against the midnight black was visually stunning.
Glancing toward the tailor, Darcy wasn’t surprised to see his triumphant expression.
Mr. Meyer was familiar enough with his client to detect Darcy’s delighted approval with the waistcoat, despite the practiced noncommittal cast to his face.
Mr. Meyer’s smile of satisfaction, Darcy knew full well, was in part the result of another superbly crafted garment, but primarily about proving his stubborn client wrong.
Meyer’s insistence that a fancier style was essential for his wedding had taken some convincing.
Even after seeing the sketches, Darcy hadn’t been one-hundred percent sure he would like something so different from the simple prints he preferred.
His trust in Mr. Meyer’s skill and experience in such matters had paid off to be sure.
Somehow he knew that Elizabeth—who had never said a word about his wardrobe—would be delighted.
Approval rendered without hesitation, Mr. Meyer nodding once and saying nothing.
Darcy was still in a state of partial undress when Peters, one of the Darcy House footmen, arrived with a folded note.
Emergencies or critical messages were rare, yet Mr. Darcy never left the townhouse without Mr. Travers being aware of Darcy’s agenda.
The habit had been put to the test infrequently, and if not specifically instructed by the sender of this note to immediately place it directly into Mr. Darcy’s hand, the butler would have simply set it on his master’s desk and thought nothing more about it.